When Fates Align Read online

  Max stomps down the hall, presumably to cool down. He tears latex gloves off his hands and throws them on the floor. “We need to book a hotel or something.”

  A hotel wouldn’t give me the privacy I need for what I have planned. It’s best not to be caught on surveillance cameras whilst planning an execution. I shake my head. “I don’t want to be somewhere that public. My estate has a house in town, in Hampstead. It’s been closed up for about six months, but I’m fairly certain the power is still on. We can go there.”

  Isaac stops me. “The Hampstead house is a wise choice. We already have security built in, and it will be easier for us to protect you there. I know you’ve resisted security in the past, but for once, you need to listen to me. Whilst it is understandable that Max presumes this was a cartel job, I think we need to think broader. This could very well be about you. I’ve called Bronson, and between he and I, one of us will be with you at all times.”

  I don’t want Edwards’s security looking over my shoulder. If I make a move on the cartel, I need to keep my company as far removed as possible. “They’re not coming after me. I’ll be fine.”

  He crosses his arms, his dark ebony skin contrasting with his crisp white Oxford shirt. “And if you get shot down in the streets, what happens to the company and all your employees? You’re in no condition to be aware of your surroundings, making yourself an easy target. Whilst I understand where you’re coming from, I really must insist, sir.” Isaac’s mobile chimes, and he looks at the message. “Bronson will be here with a car in less than five minutes. Seems he’s been waiting around the corner. Let’s go.”

  We push past police officers and forensic technicians on our way to the lift. I debate taking the stairs—the last thing I want is to run into a neighbor and have to offer an explanation for all the crime scene tape—but the lift chimes, announcing its arrival. When the doors open, a gaggle of suits from MI5 stare at me.

  A man I have yet to meet steps forward with an extended hand. With his bad comb-over and suit that just doesn’t quite fit any longer, he strikes me as a man who has trouble accepting that time is passing him by. “Oscar Hodges, Mr. Edwards. I’ll be leading the investigation.”

  Before I have a chance to speak, Isaac says, “As you can imagine, Mr. Edwards is mourning. He’ll be staying at his family estate here in town.” He pulls a silver case from his pocket, removes a business card, and holds it out to Mr. Hodges. “Contact me should you need to speak with him. Good day.”

  The rest of the group files out of the car, but Mr. Hodges stays. “Mr. Edwards, if we could—”

  Isaac steps between us. “I said, ‘Good day,’ sir.” Isaac nudges me in the back, propelling me forward into the car.

  “We’ll need a statement, Mr. Edwards! Tomorrow at the latest,” Hodges says as the lift doors close.

  As the car descends, Max says, “That guy has ‘pain in the ass’ written all over him, I can feel it. He reeks of desperation for a big collar.”

  “We have friends at MI5. However eager he may be, he’ll be kept in check,” Isaac responds.

  The lift doors open to the underground parking garage, and Bronson is waiting with a large American SUV. His large stature, standing over six-and-a-half feet tall and probably weighing eighteen stone, makes it evident why he insisted on bringing the SUV with him when he moved to London. Vehicles this size are hard to find on this side of the pond.

  “How’d you get in here without a clicker?” Max asks.

  Bronson grins as he opens the door to the backseat. “I have my ways. Now get in before the vultures see you. Since the police tape went up, they’ve multiplied like Gremlins that got caught in the rain after midnight.”

  Isaac raises an eyebrow as he opens the front passage door and climbs in. “Gremlins? Really?”

  “It was eighties trivia night last night at the pub,” Bronson says before shutting the door. After he slides into the driver’s side, he says, “Where to?”

  Isaac gives him the Hampstead address, and Bronson takes off on the A41. Traffic’s backed up, so it’ll probably take us over an hour to get there. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back on the headrest. The second my lids close, the image of Lily hanging from my wall flashes into my mind. Forcing my eyes open, I shake my head, trying to rid the picture from my mind. I look to my left and see Max typing furiously on his mobile.

  “How far is your other house from Heathrow? There’s a four-thirty flight into DC and one at five-thirty into Boston. I should be able to snag a seat on one of them.” He looks at his watch. “I know I’ll be cutting it close, but since I don’t have luggage, I might be able to make it.”

  My jaw drops. I can’t believe he’s going to jump ship now! I know he came here to help protect Lily, but for him to hop on the first flight out after her death… I thought we were mates. “You’re leaving?”

  “I need to get to DC and get the FBI on this. I know I’m persona non grata right now, but an American citizen was just executed. One that the FBI should have fought harder to protect. There’s no way this is going to slide. A group in the DEA was ready to move on Morelia, and after this, they’ll mobilize. I’m sure of it. But there’s no way I can get them moving from here. I’ve got to get home.”

  I furrow my brow. “You’ve tried that route, and it failed. There’s a leak that’s undermined every investigation. Don’t you think you’d be wasting valuable time?”

  He throws his mobile onto the seat. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

  “No one’s suggesting you do!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air.

  He points behind us with his thumb. “I just blew my chance to sit in on the investigation. There’s no way they’ll let me back in now. My only chance is to see if I can get in on things is with the FBI. I’ll go fucking nuts sitting here with my hands tied behind my back. The only thing I can do for Lily now is find her killer, and I can’t do that here.”

  “I don’t plan on sitting around twiddling my thumbs.” I glance at the front seat and notice Isaac and Bronson are talking. Lowering my voice, I say, “I’m going after them. They will pay for this, and I need your help here.”

  “You don’t have a monopoly on the rights to avenge her death. I know she was your girlfriend, but she was my friend and my case. I know you’re upset and out for blood, but whatever idea you have marinating, you need to stop. Whatever the plan, it’s more likely to land you in jail or dead. This isn’t a movie where the girl dies, you put on a cape and mask, and go save the day. The only way this works is by letting the law work for you. Let me do this for you, for her.”

  Of all people, I expected Max to be on my side. With the way the FBI treated him, I can’t understand why he feels they deserve his loyalty.

  “Pardon me if I’ve lost faith in the system,” I sneer. “She was under your care for how long? A lot of good the FBI did for her then. Also, I seem to recall you losing your job with the Bureau. But if you feel the need to run back to them and spin your wheels, by all means, hop on a plane and piss off whilst I put on my cape and mask and actually do something to eradicate the world of these bastards.”

  “Even if you had a team of black ops guys at your disposal, the likelihood of you doing anything is slim to none. Delta Force was in Columbia for how long before they killed Pablo Escobar? They hide in the slums like rodents, making it next to impossible to find them.”

  I glare at him. “This isn’t 1993, and the jackasses we’re dealing with are not Pablo Escobar. They’re little boys playing with guns. They have no strategy, no foresight, just impulsive behavior. I have the technology, weapons, and I assure you, the men I have at my disposal will find them. Will end them.”

  Max picks up his mobile and scans the screen. “There’s a seven-thirty into Boston. You’ve got till then to convince me.”

  Chapter Two

  Gavin

  The radio volume turns down, and Isaac looks over his shoulder. “I texted Mason. He and Hazel are on their way and will be
at the Hampstead house in a few hours. He said the power is on and there should be firewood, but to expect the house to be freezing.”

  The house’ll be frigid, but that’s more about the aura of the house than the temperature. The monstrosity was built almost a hundred years ago and was designed for opulence, to put my great-grandparents’ wealth on display. It’s grandiose, imposing, and repulsive. I wanted to tear it down, but as one of the last houses designed by some great Edwardian architect, it’s considered a national treasure. So I’m saddled with the dark memories and the ridiculously high cost of upkeep.

  Bronson turns onto The Bishops Avenue. In the early 1900s, this was where London’s elite built and bred. Billionaire’s row, they called it. Now it’s a collection of run-down houses no one can afford the upkeep on but we save for posterity.

  The SUV turns onto the cobblestone drive of the home that has been in my family for generations. It’s odd being here. I swore I was done with this place. Nothing but bad memories. Unlike the country house, which was all about holidays and childhood fun, this house has always been shrouded under the oppressive cloud of reality. The house was paid for by generations of bloodshed. My family would sell weapons to anyone whose check cleared; morality was never a factor. When I learned my father made over a million pounds by selling guns to an African dictator who kidnapped ten-year-old boys to put on the front lines of his army, I started calling this the House that Death Built. I’ve never seen him so angry.

  I never had any intention of living here. When I got married to Brooke, I had a flat in Shoreditch, but Brooke insisted we build a new house. Only I didn’t find out until after I’d sold my flat that she had no intention of us living there together. I moved back here, expecting my wife and I would work things out and move into our marital home together. But Brooke had other ideas, and I wound up staying here years longer than I would have liked. Six months ago, I closed up this house, hoping to leave all of that behind me. The Knightsbridge flat was my fresh start, a place to build my life with the woman I believed to be my perfect match.

  Apparently death followed me.

  Bronson puts the SUV in park, and I get out before he has a chance to open the door for me. I jog under the grand stone archways to the ornately carved front door.

  My set of house keys is back at my flat, but thankfully I had a bio-matic door lock installed before closing up the house. Mason’s notorious for making the three-hour drive to Hampstead to look in on the house and realizing he’s forgotten his keys. After the tenth time, I had the security company secure a new lock that only requires a thumbprint and code.

  Once the door is unlocked, I gesture to the chaps in the car to follow me. The dank smell of stale air hits me the moment I step inside. The sound of my footsteps echoes through the marble foyer whilst I look for the light switch. Once I find it, the enormous chandelier lights up the whole entranceway.

  “Oh good, you do have power,” Isaac says as he walks in.

  Max and Bronson trail behind him. Having worked at Edwards for two decades, Isaac’s spent plenty of time here when he worked for my father. The grandeur has lost its luster for him. Max and Bronson, on the other hand, have wide eyes whilst they take it all in. There’s not too much to see, since the furniture and art are covered by sheets, but the sheer size of the place makes it seem more like a museum than a home. But then again, this house has never been a home.

  Isaac notices and kindly helps get them in line. “It’s just a house. Stop gawking and help me get some fires started. This place’ll be nightmare to heat up.”

  Isaac seems to know his way around well enough, so I say, “I’ll go light the furnace.”

  I turn to walk toward the basement when Max tugs on my arm and says, “You might want to wash up first.”

  I gasp when I look down at myself. The knees of my trousers and sleeves of my shirt are dark burgundy. My hands are stained bright red.

  “If you tell me where the furnace is, I’ll get it up and going while you clean up. You have a change of clothes here?” He rolls his eyes. “Who’m I talking to? Of course you have a spare set of clothes.”

  I point down the hall. “Sixth door on the right will take you to the stairs to the furnace room.”

  He pats my shoulder. “Go. We’ll get this going.”

  I nod and take the stairs to my room on the third floor. After turning on the light, I make my way to the bathroom. Thankfully, Hazel left the room stocked with toiletries. The pipes groan when I turn on the shower. Water sputters out at first, but as the air clears the pipes, it turns to a steady stream. I certainly hope the hot water heater is still working.

  After removing my clothes, I fold them carefully and set them on the vanity. The thought of her blood on my clothes repulses me, yet I handle them as though they’re priceless artifacts. I’m not sure if I want to save them or burn them, but right now, they’re the closest thing I have to her.

  My emotions have been held back by the gates of shock. Since I found her, I can feel them all bubbling beneath the surface, but I’m slightly detached from them, unable to feel the full impact of their intensity. Now that I’m alone, the levee breaks and sharp pain strikes through me.

  I sit on the edge of the tub whilst I wait for the water to heat up, and I allow all of the emotions from the day to pour out of me. Seeing Lily’s tortured body hanging from the wall, still smoldering. Her dismembered fingers strewn around the floor like garbage. If I had only forced her to come to the office with me, or had I skipped my meeting and stayed home with her, I could have protected her. Had we changed one small thing, she would never have had to endure such pain, such unspeakable suffering.

  One freak accident brought that amazing woman into my life. But that same accident set off the chain of events that stole her from me. Lily used to say we met by a crazy twist of fate. Well, Fate’s an evil bitch, and she can piss off.

  Steam clouds the air, alerting me that the shower’s ready. The water is scalding, but I welcome the pain. As the stream beats on my neck and back, I watch crimson water disappear down the drain. I’m washing her away. Agony rips through me, and I scream until my throat is raw and the water runs cold.

  I turn the water off and root around in the linen closet for a towel. After drying, I find a pair of trousers and a cashmere pullover in the closet. As soon as I slide the pullover on, I remember why I left it behind. The cut isn’t right, and it’s slightly itchy. Odd for cashmere, yet ideal for the moment. I don’t want to be comfortable. I want to be ill at ease. What right do I have to comfort whilst Lily’s lying on a cold slab in the morgue?

  When I leave my bedroom, I hear faint voices. The hum of the furnace dampers the echo, but I’m fairly certain my friends have arrived. After making my way down the stairs, I see them in the study, all eyes on Max. I suppose he’s filling everyone in. From the deep looks of concentration on their faces, they’re probably already plotting.

  How many generations of Edwards have sat in that room and made decisions that resulted in bloodshed? Tonight, I suppose I’ll finally fall in with the family ranks. Grandfather would be so proud.

  The rest of the house is still freezing. Fifteen thousand square feet of marble may take a decade to feel habitable, but with the fire going in the study, it’s the warmest place in the house. Someone’s removed the sheets from most of the furniture. Whilst the rest of the house contains antiques that are for looks not comfort, the study was designed for men. This room was my grandfather’s, and then my father’s, domain, and it has deep, soft couches that are perfect for drinking copious amounts of scotch, smoking cigars, and shagging women other than their wives.

  The four men stand when I enter the room. It’s been years since I’ve seen them all together. My wedding I suppose, but that doesn’t really count. A thousand people were at my wedding; these men were lost in that crowd.

  I’ve seen them individually from time to time, but we haven’t been together as a group since I left the military. Of course, the only t
imes I saw them was when someone was on the brink of death. Being the medic for their top-secret black ops group put me into some of the most high pressure situations I’ve ever been in. Nigel, Richard, Roger, and Peter are some of the finest soldiers I’ve had the pleasure to know.

  Nigel, the leader of the group, was forced out of the military after he developed endocarditis. He was shot on a mission deep in the caves of the Afghan mountains. The bullet lodged an angel’s breath from his heart. We saved his life, but when working in a tent in the desert instead of a sterile operating theatre, infections are sometimes unavoidable. After his medical discharge, he formed a private security firm, “private security” simply being code for off-the-book operations. The rest of his group followed right behind him. The business has been a roaring success, the queen being their biggest client. With the world in the state it is these days, there’s a need for men who can operate in the grey areas of the law but still desire to fight for crown and country. Nigel’s firm acts as the guinea pigs for all of my new products: artillery, hardware, tech. They test it all out in the field and report back. They get the latest toys, and I get product testing I can trust. Mutually beneficial relationship.

  “Thanks for being here,” I say, motioning for them to sit. “I see you’ve met Max.”

  Max nods. “I was just introducing myself to the cavalry.”

  Crossing to the bar, I ask, “Scotch anyone?”

  Richard shakes his head. “I don’t suspect we’ll be here long. Best if we keep our wits about us. But drink up, mate. It’s probably best if you let go of your wits for a bit.”

  I toss some ice in my crystal glass and pour about five fingers’ worth.

  “It’s good to see you, Gavin,” Nigel says. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”